


The Curator's Assistant

by PriestessKhu



Category: The Dark Pictures: Little Hope (Video Game), The Dark Pictures: Man of Medan (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mention of Mental Illness, Reader-Insert, non-specified reader gender, pretty short compared to my usual writing, reader is shorter than the Curator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27347047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PriestessKhu/pseuds/PriestessKhu
Summary: You couldn’t remember how many years you’d done this for him. You lost count quite some time ago, as time had very little meaning in this place.Still, some things you could remember quite vividly.
Relationships: The Curator/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 88





	The Curator's Assistant

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty sure this is the first ever Curator/reader story on the net, but I may be wrong.
> 
> Still, he needs more love!

Another day, another story retold, another accumulation of misjudged actions met with dire and none too swift consequences...

The Curator thought back on the evening’s events and sighed through his nose as he closed the book resting before him and stood from his desk.

His guest had already departed in quite a dazed state, regretting a number of their decisions. They weren’t the first to unfurl fate’s wrath upon those aboard the _Duke_ _of Milan_ , and they most certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“I thought it wasn’t our place to interfere?”

Pausing upon hearing a voice, the Curator smiled when he turned to see you standing in the doorway. It was evident that you must have dozed off in the adjacent room at some point when he took in your unkempt appearance. It was only natural, given how he knew you’d previously been up for roughly eighteen hours straight.

“I will admit that I was, perhaps, a little more... _forthcoming_ than I should have been,” The Curator confessed as he pushed in his chair and lifted the book from his desk. “But offering some advice every now and again isn’t against the rules.”

You moved to meet him halfway to the bookcase, hopping up to kiss your beloved Curator on the cheek. “You’re too nice for your own good sometimes, you know that? For your age, anyway.”

“Fair enough.” He chuckled, having been kind enough to lean over so you weren’t forced to stand on your toes just to give him some affection. It was a usual post-guest gesture from you, as you knew your beloved often became frustrated with the limits he’d been placed under.

You couldn’t remember how many years you’d done this for him. You lost count quite some time ago, as time had very little meaning in this place. Still, some things you could remember quite vividly.

One such thing was that you’d grown up near to the repository.

It was one of your favorite places to play in those carefree days of youth, where you often snuck in with your best friend to run giggling down the halls and making a game of not getting caught. You thought that you were quite adept at escaping since you were never once found inside the building by anyone else.

As it turned out, the Curator simply let you kids go each time you trespassed.

The Curator was a man that went by no other name; a man who was timeless and wise, but he was also kind.

You could also still recall the day that you first met him face to face as if it had occurred mere moments ago.

Your best friend was home sick, but you’d gone to the repository anyway. You were too nervous to go play inside on your own. As such, you ended up getting trapped there in a torrential thunderstorm.

Soaked to the bone as water continued to relentlessly drench your small body, you were huddled up against the front of the massive library as far as you could get with every inch of you shivering. You were miserable and getting cold despite the muggy weather, and thus didn’t notice the audible approach of an enigmatic figure.

You _did_ , however, notice when the rain stopped assaulting your chilled skin.

“Didn’t quite learn your lesson from the last storm you got yourself caught in, I see,” A calming male voice said from above you before you could lift your head all of the way to see why you weren’t getting any more wet.

When you did fully lift you head, you were met with the sight of a middle-aged man leaning forward and holding an umbrella to shield you from the rain’s wrath. He wasn’t standing underneath the umbrella with you, but no water was daring to go anywhere near his trench coat-clad form.

There was a faint smile curling the corners of his lips upward as he observed your wide eyes staring up at him with such innocent confusion. You didn’t know who he was or what to say to him, but didn’t have to as he leaned in further and held a hand out to you.

“Come inside, then,” The man urged, although he didn’t make any move to force you to do as he said. He simply smiled, serene and perhaps even mildly amused about the situation. “You could very well catch your death of cold if you don’t, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?”

You shook your head, certainly not watching to catch a death of any kind, let alone cold. “N-no...!”

His fingers stretched a little in silent reminder and you didn’t hesitate to take hold of his much larger hand so he could help you to your feet.

Now, you were always warned not to talk to strangers, let alone willingly go somewhere with them, but you never once felt like you were in danger with this man.

You don’t know where he’d had been hiding the large towel you soon found wrapped around your shoulders, but were beyond grateful for the warmth it provided. He guided you into the building from the doors you usually snuck in through.

“Th-thank you, mister,” You voiced your gratitude between chittering teeth, looking very much like a soaked puppy as you stood just inside the doorway. Water dripped down your hair and face into small puddles on the floor, you body still shivering beneath the towel you gripped around you tightly.

“You may simply call me the Curator, (Y/n),” He replied as he removed his hat to hang up on a nearby rack. His coat was quick to follow.

“How do you know my name?” You asked, feeling a bit uneasy that a stranger could know something about you without you knowing. Maybe you _were_ in danger, but you still didn’t quite _feel_ like it.

The Curator was unfazed by your cautious gaze as he leaned down and lift the large towel to rub at your saturated hair. “I know many things; many stories. Much like ours, although it is yet to be completed.”

“I have a story?” This information made you perk up quite a bit. You loved to read, after all, and were at a high school level despite still being in elementary school. It was one of the few things you had pride in at your young age.

“Oh yes, everyone does. Some are of greater importance to others, such as the one you and I are writing this very moment,” The Curator explained as he continued to help you dry off to the point that you were no longer soaking his entryway rug.

You tilt your head and pursed your lips in thought for a moment, face scrunching up from the effort you were making to understand what the Curator was talking about. “I don’t get it...”

“You will. One day,” He assured as he came to pace his hands on your shoulders. He studied your face for a moment, a small smile coming to his lips before he stood strait. “Now then...would you care for a cup of hot chocolate to warm you up?”

“Yes please!"

You learned a number of years later that the story the Curator mentioned, the one you could only complete together, was one that entwined your fates.

The repository became much more important to you after that first meeting with the Curator. You spent as much time with him as you could, often getting huffy and depressed when he had other guests and requested you wait for him elsewhere. He’d even made you your own little corner amongst the maze of corridors and rooms lined with a fathomless world of books.

You brought your best friend with you a few times, but they didn’t like the Curator as much as you did. The two of you ended up growing apart as you grew older, but your dear Curator was always there to comfort you. In his own way, of course. He enjoyed teasing you _immensely_.

You don’t know how many times you wondered if he’d been lonely before you came along.

The Curator became your mentor somewhere in middle-school. It just sort of... _happened_. Things usually did when it came to him. This also was around the time you noticed he wasn’t ageing. _At all_.

He looked middle-aged, yes, but you suspected he was much, _much_ older.

Unsurprisingly, the Curator never confirmed nor denied this when you finally got the guts to not-so-subtly confront him about it.

“You know, I _really_ hate it when you do that,” You huffed after the only true answer you’d gotten to your question was the amusement creasing the crows feet at the corners of the Curator’s ever-watching gaze. If you didn’t know him as well as you did, you’d dare to say he could very well be attempting to hide a Cheshire grin behind his antiquated teacup.

He took a moment to set his cup down upon the saucer held in his other hand, fixing you with eyes that judged all and a relaxed smile. “I am quite aware of that fact, yes.”

You were only able to fling your hands up with such a strangled sound of frustration that he chuckled at your reaction. The Curator then proceeded to full out _laugh_ when your overexaggerated movements nearly toppled you out of the chair and onto the floor.

For all of his enigmatic antics, you continued to grow closer to him the older you got.

When you ended up developing mental health issues that hindered your ability to focus enough to do much of anything, the Curator was with you every step of the way. You were fairly certain you might have ended up in a mental hospital if it wasn’t for his guidance.

The one constant was that the Curator always let you make your own choices, as he did every person who passed through his doors. When it came to you, however, he was shamelessly more invested.

He had a three piece suit similar to his own tailor-made for you with the pants and vest in a muted shade of your favorite color, despite it being a few years before you officially became his live-in assistant.

Soon after that, you finally admitted to yourself that you had feelings for the Curator.

He, of course, was already aware of the affections you harboured. It was easy to start a romantic relationship once your stubborn denial was out of the way and you just allowed your love to be just that: pure, unadulterated love.

Thus, here you were now: watching the man you adored, the keeper of all of creation’s stories, tenderly slip _The Man of Medan_ back into its rightful place upon the bookshelf.

“Any survivors this time?” You dared to ask. The sigh you heard was enough of an answer.

“Some, but not all. The usual tale of tragedy,” The Curator replied. He turned away from the bookshelf, making his way across the room towards you.

One hand coming to slip around your waist with the other taking your left hand, the Curator led you into a slow dance with you pressed against him. He even began to hum a little tune while smiling down at you.

The softness of his actions—the _humanity_ in them _—_ made you cherish the moment all the more as your head came to rest against his chest and closed your eyes.

The love you had for this man was unfathomable.

You two danced for a time in what was one way of winding down for the evening. It let you know that your dear Curator had become stressed, but was willing to let those frustrations go. You still had yet to master the level of patience he had.

You pulled your head back to look up at him with a smile. “So...what story will be told next?”

“Perhaps Little Hope,” He replied, slowing the dance to lift a hand and caress your cheek. “Perhaps something else.”

 _Little Hope_.

That wasn’t one you’d had the chance to witness yet. As such, you continued to smile while leaning into his warm touch.

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”


End file.
